The Masked Monkey (14 page)

“What'll we do with them now?” Chet asked.

“Take them down to headquarters. Chief Carton will be delighted to see them, no doubt.”

The men were lifted into the truck. Frank and Joe stood guard over them, while Chet drove to headquarters. When they arrived, the Hardys announced a citizen's arrest and turned the pair over to be booked.

San Marten and Grimsel were told that it was their constitutional right to consult with a lawyer before making any statements. Then Chief Carton ordered both to be fingerprinted.

At this point San Marten panicked. He resisted the procedure so furiously that it took two officers to hold him while a third cleaned his fingertips preparatory to rolling them in the ink.

The Hardys watched intently. Why would San Marten lose his nerve like this?

“I'll bet he has a record,” Frank said to Joe.

San Marten scowled savagely at the Hardys, but he saw that further resistance was futile. He stood stolidly as his fingertips were rolled in the ink and recorded on the FBI standard fingerprint card.

“Send the prints to the FBI,” Chief Carton said. “But first check our files to see if we have anything on him.”

“Give me a few minutes, Chief,” said the officer, who had taken the impressions. He left the room.

Carton was discussing the Retson case with the Hardys in his office when the man returned and placed a report on the chief's desk. Carton picked it up, read it, and dropped it with a puzzled frown.

“This is unbelievable!” he said.

F
RANK
and Joe looked curiously at the police chief. “What's the matter?” Frank asked.

“It doesn't add up,” Chief Carton replied. “Here, take a look. Who would you say this is?” He pushed a photograph across the desk. Frank, Joe, and Chet studied it.

“It's Matthews,” Joe said. “We saw his picture before.”

“That's right,” Carton replied.

“What are you getting at?” Frank asked.

“San Marten's fingerprints match those of Roscoe Matthews!”

The boys looked dumbfounded.

“It can't be!” Joe exclaimed. “No two people have exactly the same fingerprints.”

“It follows that Matthews and San Marten are the same person!” Frank declared.

He reexamined the photograph of Matthews. “San Marten seems to have a narrower face,” he commented.

“And his nose is much shorter,” Joe observed.

“Also, no squint,” Chet said.

Carton nodded. “San Marten's hair is black, not blond. Of course that's easy to do with dye. But the other features are so different!”

“Plastic surgery,” Frank surmised.

“That's possible,” Carton agreed. “It's an old dodge among the criminal elements. Sometimes a crook's mother wouldn't recognize him after the operation.” The police chief stared off into space.

“The thing that doesn't fit into this theory is the difference between the behavior of Matthews and San Marten. Your Brazilian buddy appears to be quite sophisticated and tricky. Matthews wasn't like that at all, according to our records.”

“Matthews must have changed his personality along with his face!” Joe said. “It's been done by other criminals.”

An idea struck Frank. “Remember Graham Retson's poem, Joe?”

“I sure do.”

“What poem?” Carton asked.

“We found it in Graham's room and weren't sure what it meant,” Frank said. “It goes like this:

Carton was thoughtful. “Are you implying Graham Retson wanted to change his identity?”

Frank got up and paced around excitedly. “It sounds far-fetched, but we know San Marten changed his, and Graham is mixed up with San Marten. Isn't it possible that both did the same thing?”

“I don't know,” Carton said. “If Graham decided to do this voluntarily, why would San Marten have kidnapped him?”

“I doubt that San Marten would tell us,” Joe said. “But maybe Grimsel will volunteer some information.”

“Good idea,” Carton said and had the caddy brought in.

He looked frightened. Carton advised him of his constitutional rights, then began to ask him questions. Grimsel answered most of them. Gradually his confidence returned. He even became boastful.

“I know something that could blow the Olympic Health Club wide open,” he bragged.

“All right, give us the facts,” the chief said.

The caddy smirked. “I'm not that dumb. I
know what happens to informers. They end up in the water. Very dead.”

“You mean the water hazard on the golf course?” Frank asked in a nonchalant manner.

“Never mind what I mean,” Grimsel said surlily. “I'm not talking any more.”

Grimsel was taken back to his cell.

“Here's what we do next,” Carton said. “We'll get a search warrant for the Olympic Health Club and investigate the place, based on the discovery of the gun.”

“We'd like to go along,” Frank said.

“Why not? You boys collected most of the evidence so far.”

After the warrant was obtained, Chief Carton and two detectives drove to the health club. Frank, Joe, and Chet followed in the pickup. The manager met them as they entered.

“Search warrant, Mr. Portner,” Chief Carton said and presented the document.

Portner turned pale. He examined the warrant briefly, then said, “Go right ahead. We have nothing to hide.”

The officers went to inspect the manager's office. Meanwhile, Frank, Joe, and Chet made a tour of the facilities. First they visited the swimming pool, where about twenty members were splashing around. Next they paused in the doorway of the exercise room. Several men were lifting dumbbells and pedaling stationary bikes.

“Nothing suspicious here,” Joe said.

Then they went to the gym. Two teams were playing basketball. Another group of four was tossing a medicine ball.

Suddenly Frank felt a thump between his shoulders and pitched forward on his face. The medicine ball had flattened him!

Joe helped him up. Frank was gasping for air.

“Sorry, fellow,” a balding man apologized. “My aim isn't usually that bad. I hope you're not hurt.”

“Just shaken up,” Frank said, and moved on to the steam room with his pals.

Three men were sitting around in thick bath towels, soaking up the heat.

The boys immediately recognized the figure nearest them—Radley! But neither they nor Sam gave a sign that they knew one another.

“Whew!” Radley said to no one in particular. “I could use some ventilation in here!”

Was he trying to give them a hint?

“It's rather hot,” Frank agreed. “I don't think I'd like to stay very long.”

Sam did not continue the conversation, however, so the boys left. Outside, Frank said in a low voice, “Sam meant to tell us something with that remark. There was no other reason for him to speak.”

Joe nodded. “But what did he mean?”

Frank shrugged. “I wish I knew. Just keep it in mind, maybe it'll make sense later.”

“Okay. Let's get back and see if the police discovered anything.”

They found Portner talking to Carton about Grimsel. “I fired the caddy,” said the general manager. “His record here was bad. He broke the rules many times. That's why he's no longer with us.”

“Know anything about a man named San Marten?” Carton inquired.

“No.”

“A fellow named Matthews?”

“Never heard of him. Really I'm quite unfamiliar with the people you mention. We have so many members and patients who come here for treatment just for short periods that it's impossible to know everyone's name.”

The two policemen came back from their search. Carton asked, “Any results?”

“No,” one of them replied. “The place appears clean.”

Portner looked from one to the other. “At least you could tell me what you were expecting to find?”

“Oh, nothing in particular,” the chief replied. “It just so happened that a gun was found in your water hazard which belonged to a fugitive from justice.”

“Well, I do hope you're satisfied. I don't want our members disturbed by all this!” The general manager seemed genuinely distressed by the police visit.

“All right, Mr. Portner,” Carton said. “We'll clear out and let you—”

The phone rang on the desk. Portner answered, then said to Carton, “It's for you.”

The officer took the phone. After a brief conversation, he hung up. “Back to headquarters on the double!” he said, his face tense.

As they hurried out to the cars, Frank asked, “What's up?”

“San Marten staged a jailbreak!”

“How did he get away?” Joe asked.

“He had a confederate spring him,” the chief replied grimly. He climbed into the squad car.

“You mean another member of his gang?” Frank asked.

“Not on your life!” Carton said. “It wasn't a person at all. San Marten was helped by a monkey!”

T
HE
news of San Marten's accomplice stunned the Hardys and Chet.

“How did he escape?” Joe asked.

Carton shrugged. “We'll have to wait till we get to headquarters.”

The police car drove off, and the boys followed in Chet's pickup. When they arrived, Officer Jensen, who had phoned the chief, supplied the details. “Near as I can figure, the monkey climbed down from the roof, got hold of the bars to San Marten's cell, and wedged himself through. He brought San Marten a plastic explosive and a gun.”

“And San Marten did the rest,” Joe commented.

Jensen nodded. “He planted the explosive under the lock and blew it off. The men on duty came running back to find out what happened.
They saw a lot of smoke, dust, and falling plaster.”

“Where was San Marten?” Frank asked.

“Under the bed. He scrambled out with the gun in his hand, got the drop on them, and made them throw their gun belts into his cell. Then he locked them in another cell and beat it with the monkey.”

“Did the guards get a good look at the animal?” Joe inquired.

Jensen nodded again. “That's one of the strangest things. They said it was the most repulsive creature they've ever seen. A leering, snarling little monster. About three feet high with a long tail and blackish fur.”

“Diabo!” Joe gasped.

“What did you say?” Officer Jensen asked with a baffled frown.

“A Brazilian howler monkey we happen to know,” Frank said. “Your description fits him perfectly.”

Joe explained their experience with Diabo. “We think that horrible face your men saw was a rubber mask.”

“A masked monkey! That's a new one on me!” Jensen snorted. “But that was not the only confederate San Marten had when he broke jail. A car was waiting for him outside. San Marten and Diabo jumped in and were gone before we could do anything about it.”

“Did Grimsel get away at the same time?” Frank wanted to know.

“No. San Marten left him behind. I've put a special guard on the caddy's cell.”

Frank, Joe, and Chet went back to Whisperwood. In the guesthouse Chet slumped into an easy chair. “I'm bushed,” he announced. “How about you guys going to the kitchen and rustling up something for the inner man? Make mine root beer and ham sandwiches.”

Frank chuckled. “Those threatening phone calls don't seem to have affected your appetite, Chet.”

“Please, Frank. Don't remind me. Just bring on the eats.”

“Okay, okay.”

While they were munching on their sandwiches, Joe remarked. “As long as San Marten's still at large, none of us is safe.”

“And don't forget the guy who's been phoning me about the pistol found in the water hazard,” Chet said. “He's after us, too!”

Joe took a sip of root beer. “When we saw Sam in the Olympic steam room, he mentioned the word ventilation. What could he have meant?”

“You know,” Frank said, “the ventilation apparatus at the club is huge. Maybe for a reason. I vote we go back tonight and check it out. And it might be a good idea to take some detecting equipment.”

“Lucky we've got a spare bug,” Joe commented. “The other one must have sunk to the bottom when the monkey pushed us into the Amazon.”

When it was dark the boys put a scaling ladder and a mountaineer's rope aboard the truck. Then Chet drove to an inconspicuous dirt road and parked in a concealed spot. The three got out, took their gear, and stealthily approached the Olympic Health Club.

The new wing of the club loomed high above. They could barely make out the oblong shape of the ventilator on top.

“We'll have to go all the way up,” Frank said in a low tone.

“Not me!” Chet muttered. “I'm volunteering for low-altitude duty.”

Joe snickered. “Your weight would probably break the rope. We'll all be better off if you stay below and hold the ladder steady.”

They anchored the scaling ladder near some large bushes. Chet placed his feet against it, and the Hardys climbed the rungs. Frank was first. Joe followed with the rope.

The ladder fell far short of the top. Frank surveyed the gutters and the ventilator, trying to figure out how to get the rest of the way up to the roof. He spotted a two-inch pipe sticking up at one corner of the ventilator.

“That's the hold we need,” he thought. Gripping
the top rung with one hand, he reached for the rope with the other.

Frank made three tosses before the noose dropped over the pipe. He tested the rope for security, then hoisted himself hand over hand, gaining added leverage by walking up the wall with his feet. Clambering over the gutter, he gestured to Joe to follow.